The Gambler
by PhoenixFire55
Summary: Reiben, about a year after the war. One-shot.


**The song is "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. **

_On a warm summer's evenin' on a train bound for nowhere,_

_I met up with the gambler; we were both too tired to sleep._

_So we took turns a starin' out the window at the darkness,_

'_Til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak._

"Ah, he's bluffing, I know it."

"He ain't bluffing, man."

"I seen that face before, he's bluffing."

"No way. Army Boy don't play no bluffs, he just plays it straight."

Reiben kept his face still. He didn't move at all. If he'd felt the need to smile, all he would've had to do was think of Wade bleeding out. That stopped the smile every time.

Army Boy. Everyone at the casino got a nickname. Reiben being the only soldier in the room, he was called Army Boy.

And Army Boy was bluffing. He had nothing. The worst hand he could've been dealt was right in front of his eyes. Where was his ace? He never had a goddamned ace.

He folded.

"Aw, Army Boy! What are you doing?"

"You had him, man! You had him!"

"Look at all that money you just lost!"

"Can you believe he folded?"

Reiben stood up and walked out of the casino, down the street, and into a dark building.

He emerged a while later, completely broke. The gambling had taken most of his money; he'd spent the rest in the cathouse.

His feet dragged as he walked unsteadily home. He forced himself up the stairs of the building and slammed into the door to his apartment. His fingers clumsily inserted the key in the dark, and he quietly opened the door. Looking around the small, dark room, he allowed himself to relax. He couldn't see anyone, which meant Charlotte must be in the other room, already asleep. He hadn't been caught.

There was a click as someone turned the lamp on. Light flooded the room, and Reiben squinted, already feeling a headache coming on.

Charlotte was sitting in an armchair, staring at him angrily.

"Two in the morning," she said bitterly. "Traffic must've been a bitch."

Reiben ran a hand through his hair, searching the dark recesses of his mind for some kind of an excuse.

"I…got caught up at work," he said lamely, his voice hoarse from drinking.

"Isn't it strange how a man without a job can get caught up at work every day of the week?"

Reiben closed his eyes. _Count to ten_, he told himself. _Take a deep breath._

"I have a job," he said slowly.

"At the cathouse?"

Reiben slowly opened his eyes.

"That's not where I was," he lied.

"Oh, yeah?" Charlotte said, her voice breaking as she tried to hold back tears. "Then where were you? With _Charity_?"

Oh, God.

No.

She can't know about Charity. There's no way.

Reiben ran through every possibility in his head. Had Charlotte followed him to Charity's house? Had someone tipped her off? Had she noticed something different about him?

Or had he simply been too obvious?

Deep breath. One…two…three…

To hell with that.

"I spend all fuckin' day listening to you complain about every little thing!" Reiben exploded. "I'm never home for dinner, I don't have a _real_ job, we're behind on the rent, I have a drinking problem, I have a _gambling _problem, I don't _talk _you enough, I don't share my _feelings _with you! If you hate me so much, then why don't you just leave?"

"I'm not leaving," she said slowly.

The tears were gone now. She wasn't sad. Not at all. Only angry. Very angry.

"Why not?"

"Because _you_ are."

Reiben slowly lowered his eyes and scanned the floor.

A suitcase.

Right next to the door.

"Everything's in there," Charlotte said. "Goodbye, Richard."

With that, she stood up and opened the door wide.

Reiben clenched his fists together to keep from hitting her. His mother had taught him better.

He opened his mouth, the words, 'you can't kick me out', on the tip of his tongue. Then he clenched his mouth shut. She hadn't done anything wrong, not really. He was the one who'd been cheating, over and over again, drinking and gambling all their money away, and treating her more or less like dirt.

He wasn't admitting he was wrong. Just that he'd be better off without her. Without her, he wouldn't be cheating anymore. He could go to the cathouse whenever he wanted. He could have a thousand Charity's and it wouldn't matter at all. He could drink as much as he wanted, without having someone breathing down his back about it every second. His grocery bill would be cut in half, which meant more money for gambling.

On the contrary, his life had just gotten a whole lot better.

He smirked at Charlotte, just to prove how happy he was about this new arrangement, and grabbed her hand. He yanked the wedding ring off her finger and shoved it in his pocket.

"I wonder how much I can sell this piece of junk for," he said cheerfully.

He grabbed his suitcase and headed down the stairs and out into the street.

But where would he go? He couldn't afford a different apartment. If he'd gotten a goddamned ace when he was gambling earlier, he would've had enough money to stay at some hotel, at least for one night. He didn't have any friends he could go to. Not anymore.

He allowed himself a brief moment to imagine what would've happened if things had been different.

He'd show up at Jackson's door, and Jackson would smile and tell him of course he could stay there, why the hell had it taken him so long to come visit?

Although if it hadn't been for Jackson, Reiben wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. If it hadn't been for Jackson, he wouldn't have to reach for a beer every time he heard church bells ringing in the bell tower. If it hadn't been for Jackson, he wouldn't have to-

No. No point in doing that. Regret wasn't going to get him a place to stay.

Reiben took off in the direction of Charity's house, just in case Charlotte was watching him leave from the window. It was childish, sure, but it made him feel better. He'd show Charlotte just how much she _didn't_ matter. He walked just far enough to be out of Charlotte's view, and then flagged down a taxi.

"Where you going, mister?" the driver asked lazily, as Reiben slid into the back.

Reiben shook his head, closing his eyes. He tried to clear his mind of all those horrible memories and think of a place he could go.

There wasn't a place. He couldn't go to his parents' place, and that was the only place he had left. No. If he went to his parent's house he'd be assaulted by ghosts, he knew that. He couldn't run away from them. They followed him everywhere.

At least, everywhere in this city. Or, maybe…maybe they were _only _in this city. Surely those ghosts weren't in the Mississippi River, or the Appalachian Mountains, or some horse ranch in Arizona, or Hollywood, or Las Vegas.

Why hadn't he seen it before? This is a big country; he didn't have to stay in New York.

New York.

Who would've thought you could be lonely in the most populated city in America?

Truth was, Reiben realized, he'd never been anywhere he wasn't shipped to with a rifle. New York, for all its faults, was the one place Reiben felt safe. He was twenty-five, for crying out loud. It was time for him to man-up and leave.

That's what he'd do. Get out of that place and find himself.

"Hey, mister," the driver said. "You okay?"

Reiben slowly raised his head and locked eyes with the driver. He nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm fine."

He was fine. He was going to be fine.

"Where we going?" the driver asked.

"Anywhere. Just…just not here."

The driver looked at him in confusion.

"Out of New York," Reiben explained.

"Well…there's a lot of places that ain't New York. You sure you don't just need a ride to a bar, or something, buddy?"

Reiben shook his head.

"The train station," he said.

"…Which train station we talkin' about?"

"Any one. As long as it's leaving New York."

"Sir…if you don't mind my saying…looks like you been drinking, and it also kinda looks like you're wife kicked you out," the driver said sympathetically. "When my wife kicked me out, I wanted to head to the train station, too. But sometimes it's better to just…just let it go, you know? There ain't nothing New York City boys like you and me can do out in the country."

Reiben blinked. New York City boys? The country? What was he _thinking_? He'd never make it out there, away from the city.

It figures. Of all the obnoxious, lazy, rude taxi drivers in New York City, he had to get the nice one.

But let it go? Reiben couldn't let the squad go. They followed him around everywhere. That's why he _had _to leave. To run away from them.

To lose them.

But he didn't really want that, either. Not really. So…if he didn't want to lose them, then what did he have to do?

Find them.

Find Miller in his school in Pennsylvania.

Find Wade surfing in the ocean in California.

Find Caparzo in an Italian restaurant in Chicago.

Find Jackson hunting in the woods in Tennessee.

Hell, maybe he'd even find himself. Find Reiben. The most obvious place to look, of course, would be a lingerie shop in New York. But could he possibly find himself in a school in Pennsylvania, in an ocean in California, in a restaurant in Chicago, or the woods in Tennessee?

And more importantly, what did he have to lose?

"See, I'm not going to the country," Reiben said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I'm going home."

The driver looked at him quizzically, but pulled away from the curb anyway. He took one last long look at Reiben before speaking again.

"Grand Central Station," he said softly. "You're getting yourself into a whole lot of trouble, sir."

Reiben smiled. A real, genuine smile, for the first time in ages.

"I hope so," he said happily, leaning back in his seat and relaxing.

He was going to be fine. Because if there was one thing he was good at, it was causing trouble.

_He said, "Son, I've made my life out of readin' people's faces_

_And knowin' what their cards were by the way they held their eyes_

_So if you don't mind my sayin', I can see you're out of aces_

_For a taste of your whisky, I'll give you some advice."_

"Where you going, son?" the man at the ticket booth asked Reiben.

"Poughkeepsie," he answered.

"Where you headed, boy?" the man at the Poughkeepsie ticket booth asked Reiben several hours later.

"Harrisburg."

"Charleston."

"Frankfort."

As Reiben stepped off the train in Frankfort, Kentucky, he smiled to himself. New York, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee. He was almost there.

He wasn't taking a passenger train, though. No way. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. Jackson had told him a story once, about how he jumped into a cargo train and rode it all the way to Kentucky. Reiben hadn't believed him, at first. It just wasn't something Jackson would do. But the story seemed so real, and Jackson never lied.

Reiben walked for several hours along the Kentucky railroad. It was dark when a cargo train sped along beside him. Reiben ran next to it, grabbed the side, and slid into a compartment.

He lay still for a moment, and then laughed out loud. He did it. He made it.

He abruptly stopped laughing when he saw a gleaming pair of eyes staring at him through the dark.

_So I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow,_

_Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light._

_And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression._

_Said, "If you're gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right."_

Reiben opened his mouth, searching for words, but none came. The eyes continued to glare at him for a moment, and then the man shifted so the moonlight was hitting him.

He hadn't shaved in a while, or showered, either, from the looks of it. He was filthy, wearing rags for clothes, with a dirty old hat to match. He looked about fifty. But Reiben knew, time is a tricky thing. It can make you look older than you really are, make you hurt just as much as you did a year ago.

"You play cards?" the man asked hoarsely.

Reiben flinched at the voice, and then nodded hesitantly.

The man nodded back.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Reiben," Reiben said, his voice cracking.

"Reiben," the man repeated, trying it out on his tongue. "Now, you wouldn't happen to be a Private Reiben, would ya?"

Reiben nodded warily.

"That's what I thought. You look like a soldier. Look, kid, I'm the Gambler."

Reiben nodded again.

"You play poker," the Gambler said.

It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Reiben nodded.

"If you're gonna play the game, son, you gotta learn to play it right."

Reiben stared at the Gambler in confusion.

"Come here, boy."

Reiben hesitantly went closer. The Gambler pulled out a deck of cards. He shuffled them and handed the top card to Reiben.

"What card?" the Gambler asked.

Reiben glanced at the card. A jack. Jackson.

"Jack," Reiben answered.

The Gambler nodded.

"You gonna throw it away, or you gonna keep it?"

Reiben frowned. What the hell did that mean? You can't play poker with one card.

"You gonna throw it away, or are you gonna keep it?" the Gambler asked again.

Could he throw away a jack? Could he throw away Jackson?

"I'm gonna keep it," Reiben said quietly.

"Aw, now, son. You gotta know when to throw 'em away."

"I know when to throw 'em away," Reiben said defensively.

"See, I don't think you do. That jack ain't gonna do you no good, kid. Throw it away."

Reiben stared at the jack. He couldn't throw it away. He couldn't.

"You're gonna lose everything you have if you keep holding on to that jack. Ain't no use to you now. Throw it away, boy. _Throw it away_."

Who was he to tell Reiben what to do?

"It ain't gonna do you no good. You gotta no when to throw 'em away."

Reiben swallowed. Throw Jackson away? Jackson was no good to him now?

It was true, though. Jackson did nothing for him now. Nothing but drive him to drink. Reiben had to stop. He had to let it go.

He had to throw it away.

He handed the jack to the Gambler, and immediately felt a pang in his chest.

He tried to calm down. After all, just because he was throwing away a jack didn't mean he was throwing away Jackson. He was being stupid. Jackson was still Jackson. And Reiben would never throw him away.

The Gambler handed him another card.

"What is it, boy?"

"A queen."

The Gambler looked at him questioningly. Reiben tried to hand the card back to him.

"What the hell you think you're doing?" the Gambler asked.

"Throwing it away."

"You know what? You're awful at this game. That's a damn good card. Why the hell you think you're gonna throw it away?"

"I don't need a queen."

Damn queen.

Damn Charlotte.

Reiben didn't need a queen. Never needed one. The only person he ever needed was himself.

And the squad. He needed them, too.

"Damn it, son. Fine. You want to throw away the one good card in your life, you go ahead and do it. You're doing that queen a favor, you know that? Ain't nobody wants to be a good card in the hand of a player who don't know what the hell he's doing."

He snatched the queen back, grumbling incoherently.

"Son, how do you survive out here?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Reiben asked defensively.

"You don't know when the hell you're supposed to hold a hand, and when the hell you're supposed to fold. Now, listen here, boy, 'cause I'm only gonna say it once."

_You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,_

_Know when to walk away, and know when to run._

_You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table. _

_There'll be time enough for counting when the dealin's done._

"You get a hand and you don't know what the hell you gonna do with it. That's how you is, kid. That's just how you is. You can't change who you is, boy. You just gotta do the best you can with the hand you been dealt. Quit folding. All the time, you're folding. _Hold_ those damn cards, boy. Time to man-up, son. Hold 'em. That's the best damn thing you can do, if you ain't sure. Just hold 'em. You can always fold next round, boy. Don't throw away your cards if you ain't done with 'em."

_Now every gambler knows that the secret to survivin'_

_Is knowin' what to throw away and knowin' what to keep._

'_Cause every hand's a winner and every hand's a loser,_

_And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep._

Reiben ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't done with his cards. He'd never be done with them. He could throw away the queen, sure, but he'd never throw the squad. He'd never let them go. He'd hold onto those cards for the rest of his life.

So, what the hell was this guy trying to teach him?

The Gambler handed him another card.

The king. Who was that? Captain Miller? No, Reiben had a feeling it was someone else.

Upham. The king. Out of the whole squad, yeah, Reiben supposed Upham had come out on top. He'd survived, and he was probably doing pretty well. The rest of the squad was dead. And Reiben? Well, Reiben was here. He survived, and he was here.

Hadn't that always been Reiben? He'd survived Omaha Beach, and he was there. He'd survived rescuing Ryan and he was somewhere else. He survived the war, and now he was here. No purpose but survival. Survival and cards.

"What the hell you gonna do with that one?" the Gambler asked.

Reiben stared at the card in his hand.

"I'm gonna keep it," he murmured.

"Good. Good. That's a nice card, right there. You keep that one, boy. Finally starting to get something right."

The Gambler handed him one last card. The last face card, Reiben assumed. The ace. He took the card.

The Joker.

Reiben cracked a smile. His card.

"Now, you remember yourself, son. Don't you ever throw away your own card."

With that, he turned over and fell silent.

Reiben stuffed the king and the joker into his jacket. He stared at the tracks beneath him, and the trees in front of him. He imagined Jackson running through those woods, running across a field. Where the hell was he running? Reiben searched his mind for the answer. When Jackson was riding on this same railroad track, where the hell was he trying to go? Reiben shook his head. It didn't matter where he was headed, only that he came back. He may have been running away at first, but in the end, where did he go?

Home. He was running home.

Reiben reached over and shook the Gambler. He didn't wake up. Reiben pulled his hand away, feeling a chill go up his spine.

Dead.

Reiben, not knowing what to do, stared at the Gambler. He probably didn't have any family. No friends. No nothing. Someone would find him when they were emptying out the train, and they'd throw him away.

Like a card.

Reiben reached into the Gambler's coat and pulled out the old deck of cards. He stuffed it in his own jacket, and pulled out the king and the joker.

He looked at the king. Why was he going to Tennessee? Jackson wasn't there. And Miller wasn't in Pennsylvania, and Caparzo wasn't in Chicago, and Wade wasn't in California. He knew where they were.

Sitting under white crosses in Normandy.

He found them everyday, too. At the bottom of every bottle he drank.

The only one he couldn't find was Upham.

Reiben slipped the king back into the deck. Maybe he'd go find Upham. Yeah, maybe that's what he'd do.

Reiben stared at the joker in his hand.

The joker is the highest trump card. Depending on what game you're playing, the joker can either be an extremely beneficial, or an extremely harmful card.

Reiben smiled as he remembered one of the rules of poker.

When a joker is in use, it's played as an ace.

_So when he'd finished speakin', he turned back towards the window,_

_Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep._

_And somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even._

_But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep._

**I hope you liked it! This was my first songfic, so if you didn't like it, please don't hesitate to tell me! Reviews are greatly appreciated, of course. :) **


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